


Shells

by die_schoenste_aller_Hexen



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale is a Good Friend, Eating, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Oysters, crowley why you angsty, more angst than i meant to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 20:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19325188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_schoenste_aller_Hexen/pseuds/die_schoenste_aller_Hexen
Summary: Crowley's eyes get human comments for the first time, and Aziraphale demonstrates proper oyster eating technique. Continuation of Roman scene in Ep 3. A Nice and Accurate Fanfic.





	Shells

Bugger all the humans. For real this time, he really wanted it to happen, he really did.

It was just a quick temptation in Rome. Find some guy named Cassius (and weren’t there eight million of those), whisper a few lines about the emperor’s out-of-control blood-lust, bippity bop, and he could head back to that lovely hot rock outcropping he’d found in a land that would one day be called Costa Rica. He hadn’t even minded the assignment, really. This Caligula fellow sounded like a sick fuck. Hell’s bells, humans could come up with some messes. So work was all right.

But when he got to Rome, he found the area had changed greatly since his last visit. The clothing, the hair styles, and worst of all… Well, Crowley had adapted his style to match the humans’— _I mean, when in Rome, right?_ he thought, and wasn’t that catchy—despite the crappy hair and the silly toga (although the laurel leaves looked quite nice against his hair color) and assumed that was that. Wasn’t his favorite look, but it was temporary, darling, everything is ultimately just temporary. He could get to work wheedling his way into the praetorian guard barracks.

“Look at this pisser’s eyes!” someone had shouted as he slipped through the street. Crowley hadn’t given it a second thought, had kept right on moving, when he noticed the crowd had turned towards him, they were all focused on _him_. The crowd, which had previously been a jostling mess of busyness and purpose, had come to a standstill around him.

“What’s wrong with your eyes then?” came another voice.

“Where are you from? Are you a southerner? Did something happen to your face?”

Crowley was stunned by this attention. The last time he’d been in Rome—well, it hadn’t been called Rome at the time, but the last time he’d been in this vicinity, no one had said anything about his eyes. No one said anything about his anything, everyone minded his own business. Never before had anyone commented on his eyes. What was wrong with them?

Too unnerved to do anything else, he fell back on his job training: Look inconspicuous, do demonic things. How could he do demonic things if he wasn’t looking inconspicuous? Shielding his eyes as if from the sun, he pushed his way through the crowd to a narrow alleyway, where he could get a moment of privacy. Immediately he miracle’d up a … something, he wasn’t sure what to call it yet, he just needed something to cover his eyes, and this is what he’d got. He figured out how to attach it to his face, then startled.

Crowley leaned back against the wall with a huff and took the contraption off. It was a pair of clear glass plates, very tiny and very thin, attached with strips of metal that were fashioned to bridge the nose and then go behind the ears. Quite brilliant, actually, he hadn’t meant to create something so fascinating.

It was just, the tinting was annoying. He understood it, the tinting was the whole point. The glass was darkened, and it cast a gloomy shadow over everything in sight. He imagined that once he put on the thing, the plates blocked his eyes just enough to cover whatever difference the humans were commenting on. Simple, effective, now get on with the demonic things. This was _Rome_ ; people would assume it was some absurd fashion item.

Fine, well done, all good, er, bad. He returned to inconspicuousness, and then he did some demonic things.

*+*+*+*

The humans here were so _different_ from the ones back home. They had a level of judgment, of _separateness_ , that had alarm bells ringing between Crowley’s ears. They spoke numerous languages, were clearly divided into economic classes, and identified strongly with their region of origin. And then there was that new religion springing up. It had to do with that Jesus fellow, Crowley learned, the one he’d seen crucified last decade. Well, one of them.

Crowley wasn’t an idiot. He had seen growing diversity on his assignments, which is why he preferred to spend his downtime in the homogeneous kingdom near the equator and half a planet away. But Rome was showing him a greater multiplicity of humans than he’d ever seen before.  

It was painful to watch. Going in quite the opposite direction of Godliness. Was that God’s great plan? To let the humans segregate themselves into oblivion? Bit cruel.

And to have to wear those ridiculous plates on his face. He had still attracted attention, but far less, and he received no unwelcome comments regarding his appearance. He’d have to investigate later. He’d seen eyes like his before, hadn’t he? When was the last time? Maybe it had been a century, or two…

And then he started thinking about the temptation, which he should never do, should never think like this. It’s just, murder is wrong, of course, and he tempted the guy into doing it. So good, he’s doing his demonic deeds. But then, if Caligula really is a truly awful person, could it be OK to kill him to stop him?

So he doesn’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. If it’s a bad thing, then that’s … good, he’s a demon, he’s supposed to do that. If it’s a good thing, which it certainly sounds like a good thing, then he’d be in trouble, because he isn’t supposed to be good. But he had to follow his orders, and he wouldn’t be ordered to do a _good_ temptation, so …

This is what drives Crowley mad, going in circles, never finding footing, never quite secure, and therefore endlessly Falling.

So no wonder Crowley is in a pissy mood now. But the assignment is over. Temptation accomplished, whatever will be will be, and now he needs to get stinking drunk. Then he’ll head back to the little seaside kingdom with the big rocks and long, sunny days. And nothing on his face.

*+*+*+*

“What have you got?” he calls as he throws a leg over the stool. “Give me a jug of whatever you think’s drinkable.”

“Jug of house brown,” the barmaid replies. “Two sesterces.”

He reaches for the coins in his robe and hears a puzzled, “Crawley—Crowley? Well…”

And he’s relieved. For some reason, the first thought in his head is, _Oh Angel, am I glad to see you._

“Fancy running into you here!” Aziraphale is still smiling as he settles into a seat near Crowley. He leans in conspiratorially to ask, “Still a demon then?”

So much for being relieved. “What kind of stupid question is that, ‘still a demo—‘ What else am I gonna be, an aardvark?”

But the angel only takes the snap with a smile before raising his cup. “Salutaria!”

_Damn you, angel,_ thinks Crowley, but they clink cups anyway.

“In Rome long?” asks Aziraphale.

Ugh, work, always work. The last thing he wants to do is talk about work. “Just nipped in for a quick temptation. You?”

“I thought I’d try Petronius’ new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.” The angel sounds like he’s imparting a trade secret unto Crowley, which makes him pause mid-sip.

“I’ve never eaten an oyster,” he muses. In fact, Crowley hasn’t consumed most of the human edibles. He’s watched humans eat just about everything under the sun, and since he’s on assignment with them, he probably should eat too. It’s just … well, he’s just never gotten pleasure out of it. Drinking, sure, he gets the appeal of alcohol. But food, eh, he’s more apt to leave it than take it.  

“Oh. Well!” Aziraphale sounds almost offended. “Let me tempt you to—”

For that split second, Crowley almost loses his shit. Almost. But he doesn’t, instead choosing to be terrifically amused by the angel’s horrified expression.

“Oh no. No, that’s your job, isn’t it?”

Oh, he wants to howl with laughter. But he doesn’t, instead bringing the cup back to his lips and rolling his eyes. _Is this angel for real?_ he wonders. He wants to rise to the bait (there is bait, surely, even Aziraphale can’t be this ridiculously dense?) and run with it, to play any sort of game that will make him forget about stupid Rome and the stupid humans and his stupid face thing and the shadowy world around him, a world more distant from Heaven than ever before.

Aziraphale is nervously fingering his own cup, eyes downcast, so Crowley throws him a bone. “All right, angel. Oysters. Let’s eat.”

*+*+*+*

“Oysters are best fresh,” Aziraphale explains as he leads Crowley to the restaurant. “Right out of the ocean, right out of the shell, but I like to add just the right dipping sauce. With _puddles_ of oil and vinegar, it has to be _soaking_ in puddles of oil and vinegar.”

Crowley snickers inwardly but listens raptly to the angel describe the experience they are about to partake.

“It’ll have a briny taste, a strong taste of the sea—but not overwhelmingly fishy,” cautious the angel, gesticulating with precision. “And as I said, the sauce is crucial. Nothing too overpowering, it’s got provide a sort of crest for the meat, you see. And you must slurp them right out of the shell.”

“Slurp?”

“I’ll show you.” The restaurant is just a short walk away, so Crowley serenely follows the angel inside and allows him to request the oysters. And more alcohol, of course.

After the drinks arrive, the angel surprises him by continuing with his detailed instructions. “Now, as I said, oysters are best fresh, so they may be clamped shut. You must gently prise the shell apart to get to the tender meat inside. But Petronius’ new recipe may be baked oysters, and baking is marvelous—”

Crowley can’t stand it. “You’re not going to say anything?”

The angel stops mid-gesture. “Say anything? About the oysters?”

“About—” He runs out of steam and waves vaguely at his face.

To his surprise, the angel blushes, and looks down into his cup. “I wasn’t going to ask,” he said. “It’s not my place to ask you about the form you choose to take.”

“You think I want to wear these damned things?” He snatches them off and drops them to the tabletop. It is a relief to see the world sharply again, without that shadow sucking the color out of everything. He hadn’t removed the contraption since his arrival in Rome.

Aziraphale has picked up the item and is inspecting it studiously. “Rather brilliant invention. What do you call it?”

“I dunno, it doesn’t matter.” Crowley waves off the flattery. He doesn’t want compliments on his brilliant “hide your features from the humans, lest they decide to destroy your body” ideas. He doesn’t want to hide those traits at all. “Had to hide the eyes, is all. Got called out by a human over them!”

Aziraphale looks suitably full of pity, and Crowley subtly preens under the attention. He should be pitied. After all, aside from hiding his wings, Aziraphale doesn’t need to do anything to fit in with the humans. How much longer is Crowley going to be able to move about them unnoticed? What’s next, his sigil?

Humans and their differences. Going completely in the wrong direction. Why couldn’t they see the bloody obvious—that the similarities, the shared experiences, the _oneness_ , their commonalities far surpass any minor differences?

The oysters arrive, and the angel loses the conversation. He drops the contraption, claps his hands, and titters, “Perfect! Right out of the shell.” The oysters are arranged in half shells in a circle around a ramekin of sauce. “So, as I was saying,” and Crowley is so grateful for this, this moving on from an uncomfortable subject to something ludicrous, “you must slurp the oyster out of the shell, and there is a very particular way you’re going to want to do this.”

“Is there?”

“Oh yes. Pay attention.” And then the angel makes the most ridiculous of faces. Cupping his fingers to illustrate the shell, he opens his mouth, tilts his head back, and puffs out his top lip. “Lips over—like this,” he demonstrates, before inserting the tips of his fingers and then removing them, “and then you slurp.”

“Show me again,” the demon says, suppressing his smile.

Aziraphale is more than happy to repeat the gesture. He looks so earnest and sincere, and absurd. Crowley carefully keeps his own lips pursed together, as he finds his shit becoming once more endangered of being lost. “So, overlap with the top lip, then get the suction, and tip your head back, let gravity do the work. Watch.”

He picks up one of the oyster shells, pours some of the sauce on top, and then brings the shell to his lips. He inserts nearly the entire thing into his mouth before throwing his head back and slurping. Crowley can actually hear the _shhhtp_ of the meat being sucked down the angel’s throat.

Feeling vaguely foolish, Crowley molds his mouth as he saw the angel do and slips his top lip over the shell. He tips his head back and sucks, tongue buffeting against the rough shell of the oyster, and then the meaty morsel slides onto his tongue.

“Well?” Aziraphale is looking at him expectantly. “What do you think?”

Crowley swirls the meat about his mouth. What _does_ he think? Nothing bad or good, really. It’s briny, and slick with that fishy undertaste, but beyond that, he can’t say anything else. He can’t _judge_ its freshness, or _rate_ its brininess, or _approve_ of the dipping sauce. He can only idly note these things in passing, but without context, they are meaningless.

“I dunno,” he finally says. “I guess it tastes … oyster-y?”

“Yes, but do you _like_ it?”

The angel sounds like he’s desperate to hear the affirmative, not begging, but certainly eager. Crowley likes making him squirm like this, loves that little squeal that hitches in Aziraphale’s throat. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? Best not to speculate, he decides.

And, since Crowley doesn’t really care one way or another about the oyster, he says, “Yeah, is all right.”

Aziraphale looks relieved as he picks up his own oyster. “The sauce is excellent, I think it’s the honey that sets it apart. Oysters are one of those foods that varies greatly by location, a different taste for every sea, ha ha!”

“Every sea, right.” Crowley picks up another one and slurps it down. He could enjoy this eating thing, if he knew what he was looking for. “Where’s the best oysters, then?”

And that sets the angel prattling on again, gesturing with empty shells, while Crowley slurps the remaining oysters, and the spectacles lay forgotten on the table.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've written and published in more than a dozen years, so be gentle. It didn't come together the way I wanted it to, but I want to see what, if any, reaction I get posting it. Also, my research shows that eyeglasses weren't invented until about 1200 AD, so it was hard to explain how Crowley had them in 41 AD.


End file.
